Hunting Things
by Lif61
Summary: Sam and Dean patch each other up after a rough hunt, and then they talk about Dean's promise to their dad. Sam's scared about what he is.


**A/N: Written for week 13 of SPN Hiatus Creation 2019 on tumblr.**

**Prompt: Classic Supernatural**

* * *

It was sometime past midnight, and Dean was cranking an AC/DC tune, wearing his dad's leather jacket, wrist adorned with the few bracelets he'd picked up along the way from hunting, things to keep him safe, ring glinting on his finger off of a streetlight they passed. Sam was in the passenger street, still with that college-boy look, in a hoodie and sneakers, and he was bleeding heavily from the left side of his face, vicious claw marks that had almost taken his eye. Sam was sure that when he looked into a mirror he'd see a little bit of the white of his cheekbone through all that blood. He had a cloth held up to his face, and it was almost soaked through.

That's what he got for tangling with a werewolf. Again.

It'd been a few months since Madison, and he hadn't really been sleeping with anyone since, just doing the job, and sometimes finding a girl here and there that he liked, and being good to her, but not satisfying himself. He feared if he did that she'd die. Or worse. He'd have to kill her.

Dean was Dean. Still had his fun wherever they went. And sometimes Sam would find him in the Impala the next day, hungover, sunglasses over his eyes.

It wasn't a cool look for his brother, but he couldn't seem to get him to stop.

And so they kept driving, they kept hunting, even with the threat of Sam's powers looming over them: the dreams, the telekinesis.

The worst of it was the headaches.

He'd had one a few hours back, which was why they'd tracked the werewolf back to a cabin in the woods, finding the rest of the pack. It was a small pack, just two others, but they'd had to take them out, and the fight had been bloody.

Dean was scratched up a bit, maybe had some other injuries, but Sam was sure he'd gotten the worst of it.

"Dean, you mind turning that down?" Sam asked, releasing a groan afterwards, the action of moving his lips straining at his wound. "We just had a fight, man."

His brother turned up the volume.

"Dean."

Dean huffed, and turned the music off altogether.

"Fine. So your vision, huh? You see yourself getting hurt?"

"No. I wasn't supposed to be there."

"Why not? You busy sleeping with one of them?"

"No," he shot back. He risked taking the cloth from his face to whack Dean with it, and then he put back to all the blood. Dean shot him a disgusted look, but said nothing else. "There's more than werewolves going on, man. I think Yellow-Eyes, or something—"

"Crap."

"Yeah."

"So he's around?"

"No, but he's planning something."

"Great. Friggin' great."

Dean turned the stereo back on, "Let There Be Rock" blaring through the speakers.

* * *

They found a shady motel in the city they drove into, and got to work, salting the windows, the door, spray-painting Devil's traps on the floor, and doing the ceiling as well. And they didn't quite have an exorcism memorized just yet, so they had one of the books on it that they'd borrowed from Bobby out on the main table that was by the beds.

"Alright, ready to patch each other up? You look a mess," Dean said.

Sam gratefully collapsed onto the bed closest to the wall, unzipping his jacket, and slipping it off. He was sure something was wrong with one of his arms.

Dean worked on him first, cleaning his face and stitching it up, calling Sam a baby as he winced through it, and he took a look at his arm, determining he'd probably torn something inside, and the pain went down to his chest. So after he took his shirt off, and they cleaned more blood off of him using the ratty wash cloths from the motel, they wrapped him up with the help of a few ace bandages.

Dean was next, and he was already taking his shirt off by the time Sam was coming over to him with a bottle of scotch, a wash cloth, and the dental floss they were using to stitch each other up.

Dean turned, showing Sam his back. There was a tooth sticking out of his skin. He winced, partially thinking about the werewolf that had gotten its fang torn out.

"Ow."

"Yeah, it hurts. Can you get it out already?"

Sam set to work on him, teeth bared as he pulled the tooth free from his flesh, Dean grunting. His hand went back to reach out for Sam, and Sam reassuringly pat him on the back, making sure to aim for an area where he wasn't injured.

His brother had a sip of the scotch.

"Wow, that's good stuff."

"It's bottom shelf."

"Alcohol's alcohol."

He got to stitching him, and Dean complained, "You really have to get the mint dental floss?"

"And you called me a baby," Sam shot at him.

"Fine. But I'm doing our next supply run."

"Yeah, and what's that gonna be: booze, porn, and candy?"

"You bet."

"Dude, ever try being healthy for once?"

"I am healthy."

"Uh huh."

"Least I'm happy."

Sam let out a bitter laugh, not believing his brother for a second.

"Yeah, you're on your way to being a motivational speaker."

"You almost done?" Dean asked, seemingly not liking that Sam was prying, but that's what he got for the jabs he'd made earlier.

Sam stabbed the needle particularly hard, making his brother wince and tense, and he answered, "Yep."

He finished up, and Dean took over cleaning up the mess they'd made. He leaned in the doorway of the bathroom, arms crossed. The room was dim, the lamps and the light from the bathroom providing the only light. The dark walls which couldn't seem to decide between being brown or red were really bad at making things seem brighter.

"Sam, about earlier, the werewolf thing—"

He wanted to shoot Dean a bitch face, but instead he ran a hand through his hair, and turned away, trying to settle into bed.

"Forget it."

"I'm sorry."

"Yep."

"And your powers. I'm just… I'm scared."

"And you think I'm not?" Sam suddenly snapped, turning towards Dean, hand pointed at his chest. "You think this crap doesn't terrify me?" Sam stood up, approaching his brother. "I'm scaring myself, man. The-the things I can do, the things I've _done_. I-I don't know what it means, I don't know _why_, and now you got this promise you made to dad that if I— We hunt monsters, Dean. And look at me! Let's look at what I've done!" He ticked them off on his fingers as he listed, "I can see the future, I can move things with my mind, I _screwed_ another monster."

"Dude, don't, don't—"

"What? Don't what? Say the truth? Even you look at me like I'm a freak."

"You're not a freak."

"Then what about that promise you made to dad, huh? What about that?"

"Sammy, I won't have to."

"What if you will? And Yellow-Eyes is still out there. We don't even know why he killed mom! Dean, I'm messed up."

Dean put his hands on Sam's shoulders, and started pushing him back, which only made Sam's vision start to go red.

"Okay, okay. Hey, just go to bed. Okay? You had a long day. You're hurting, you're tired, you had a bit to drink. You need sleep."

Sam tried to fight him, arms wrapping around him, but he fell, Dean pushing him down to the bed. He tried to get up, and Dean smacked his hand against his chest.

"Go to bed."

Dean walked away to grab a shirt, and Sam lay there, a leg hanging off the bed, staring at the ceiling. He sniffled, nose feeling stuffy, dark thoughts weighing him down.

Eventually Dean had turned most of the lights off, and had pulled his pants off, was sitting in his boxers and a t-shirt, still with his jewelry on, and he was looking at Sam.

"We're just gonna focus on the family business, okay?"

"Hunting things," Sam said.

"Yeah, hunting things."

Hunting things. Sam could do that.

Dean turned out the light.


End file.
